<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>it's so easy in this blue, where everything is good by Zanzibarxx</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24557785">it's so easy in this blue, where everything is good</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanzibarxx/pseuds/Zanzibarxx'>Zanzibarxx</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Honestly Bucky just needs a hug, Inner Monologue Angst, M/M, Post Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Stucky is canon i'll fight you on this one, steve rogers plays knight in shining armor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:20:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,956</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24557785</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanzibarxx/pseuds/Zanzibarxx</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>in which a wandering bucky gets caught in a rainstorm and his knight in shining armor comes to save him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>it's so easy in this blue, where everything is good</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Truth is, I’ve never written a Stucky fic and, overall, it’s been a while since I’ve sat down and written anything. But somehow I churned this out (the first thing I've finished in a while, too!), and enjoyed writing for the first time in a hot minute, so I hope someone at least enjoys it.</p>
<p>Title is from "Buzzcut Season" by Lorde</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A cold, watery torrent seizes the glowing streets of New York City.</p>
<p>He remembers a little rhyme:</p>
<p>"April showers bring May flowers."</p>
<p>Or something like that – he isn't sure exactly where or when he heard that phrase, but it rings like a dying song entrapped in the back recesses of his brain. Back there, a lot of dying things sing and Bucky isn't exactly sure where they came from. His entire cranium is full of a heavy smog of perplexity and unknown, disrupted with fleeting blips of memories that he doesn't know the origins from. Most of what he does recall readily is bleak walls, men in lab coats, and the constraints they tethered him with.</p>
<p>And the other thing he remembers is the man.</p>
<p>The one on the bridge.</p>
<p>The one on that massive, airborne warship.</p>
<p>The one he plucked from the tumultuous waters of the Potomac River and left on the bank.</p>
<p>He knew him. Or he knows him. Bucky isn't entirely positive what that means. His whole existence confuses him. He was human, like the others, but he hadn't been allowed to suffice as a human. He was simply an asset. A weapon. A means to an end for those men.</p>
<p>But now he's free.</p>
<p>Or as free as the prison of his mind allows him to be.</p>
<p>Bucky starts to realize that liberty and self-choice isn't exactly a prize to win. Scraping by on the city streets of New York isn't the definition of the American Dream, either. But compared to being locked up and frozen to the core, this was something short of paradise. He consoles himself with that thought.</p>
<p>Right now, slopping through ankle-deep, grimy water in the alleyways behind some building with the scent of hamburgers wafting from its back door isn't exactly endearing but he tries to keep his mood from faltering too low. He can't afford the doom and gloom, not until he's managed his way into somewhere with a roof and maybe some heat.</p>
<p>He looks homeless.</p>
<p>Well, he technically is homeless.</p>
<p>This outfit of clothes was the last thing he purchased before disembarking from the nation's capital. Denim jeans and a gray sweatshirt cloaked underneath a jacket that wasn't technically waterproof (curse him, he should've read the labels better). Long hair tucked underneath a stark red baseball cap with the Washington National's insignia above the bill – a hat he wish he'd ditch for something local because all the inhabitants here insulted him for wearing it with a sneer of "Go Yanks!" or, sometimes, "Go Mets!" Bucky didn't like the additive attention.</p>
<p>Rugged, dirty and soaked, Bucky knew he wasn't going to find somewhere that would let him occupy space away from this storm, at least willingly. Which he can't blame them. A disheveled homeless man didn't put up a positive image for cute coffee shops and boardwalk food hotspots. Besides, he's not entirely sure he deserves a warm place and a shelter from the rain. He can't put his finger on why he thinks that he just does. He's no better than a street dog and deserves nothing more than an animal.</p>
<p>Trudging down the sidewalk, Bucky blinks away from the shop fronts he passes, not even trying to tempt his dwindling morale with hope. Maybe he'll find a park with a gazebo. Or somewhere with an unoccupied overhang that would let him dry off. He clutches to those figments of hope, instead, and continues to sidestep over mud puddles and blink the splattering raindrops from his eyelashes. But each yard he travels, glancing down side streets with a morsel of studious hope, the more Bucky is unsure he becomes. Everything is either a loitering risk or not suitable enough.</p>
<p>From behind, Bucky hears in the distance the rumble of a bike engine. The man chuckles dryly to himself, wondering what sorry idiot got caught in the rain on his motorcycle. At least there's some consolation knowing another poor soul existed at this very moment.</p>
<p>Bucky's musings are halted by a sudden gust of wind that pelts into his chest. The bluster catches the bill of his baseball cap, flinging it to the ground. Cursing, Bucky turns and collects the hat from the puddle it made home. If it wasn't already doused, now it was saturated with dirty water. The man curses again, defeatedly chucking the hat into a nearby trashcan.<br/>
Maybe that was a sign he needed to get a new one, anyway.</p>
<p>The roar of the motorcycle engine catches Bucky's attention, glancing at the road and the singular headlight traveling through the rain. The motorist speeds past, traveling several yards before Bucky sees the illumination of the taillights and the man aboard swerve to the side of the road. The man swings his leg over the bike, hands reaching up and shaking his helmet off of his head.</p>
<p>"Bucky."</p>
<p>The voice rattles down his spine like icy electricity, a cutting edge through the miserable drum of rainwater against his skull. His gut ignites a wave of adrenaline and dread, immediately inciting a desire to prepare for a fight, but this feeling is drowned by a gentle, almost docile, wave of familiarity and calm. Why was this familiar and calm?</p>
<p>Because he muses for a swift second, I know him.</p>
<p>But he didn't know him, and he knew him all the same time. And it had been that exact reason why Bucky chose to dive into the waters of the Potomac and pluck an unconscious Steve Rogers. This man, his mission, didn't deserve to die. Not at his hands, no matter what Alexander Pierce and the other heads of HYDRA tried to feed him.</p>
<p>He had ducked into the shadows and anonymity to both save himself and to put distance between him and Steve. He still couldn't objectively reason his relationship with Steve, nor did Bucky trust the fragments of his brain from hurting Steve once more, as he did in the skies aboard the faltering, flaming helicarrier.</p>
<p>They had been two peas in a pod. The museum in Washington DC spoke of their bond, stretching back to the gallows of the Great Depression until the moment Bucky lost his life in the second great war. But all this information just felt like a lesson from a history textbook to the man. There were no memories within his tangible memory. No recollection. Just the feeling – familiarity and calm.</p>
<p>And despite Bucky's best intentions to wedge a gap, just in case that feeling wasn't enough to subdue the demons begging for insurrection inside Bucky's battered and broken mind, Steve had managed to thrust himself back into Bucky's orbit. Just as surely the moon follows the sun, Steve Rogers had tracked Bucky down in the great City That Never Sleeps.</p>
<p>A timeless pause elapses between the two men in the watery Brooklyn street. There's a moment where Bucky considers his options of fleeing into the deluge without as much as a word to Steve, but a heavy feeling weighs in his body and anchors him to the cement much to his displeasure. He had already tried to run, and it was obvious that attempt did not hinder Steve Rogers.</p>
<p>And, admittedly, Bucky doesn't want to run from Steve again. While he's stricken with fear about who he is and what is past holds, Steve holds a huge piece of that answer, and Bucky can't help but admit that he fervently wants to piece together that shattered enigma. (Though he isn't sure Steve can put an answer to the blood on his hands. Besides, Bucky isn't prepared to investigate that avenue anyway.)</p>
<p>When the wind finally catches itself along the surface area of his lungs, Bucky's mind still can't conjure the right flow of words to confront the situation. He's a mixture of petrified to the core and wildly relieved. He desperately wants to tell Steve off. He wants to ward the headstrong man off. But he also wants to ask him why.</p>
<p>Why did you follow me here? Why didn't you let me die that day on the helicarrier? Why can't you see the monster I am? Why am I so important to you? Why, why, why?</p>
<p>And it's torment pushing those questions into the back of his mind, drawing a slow and steady breath to draw himself back to the brink of composure. A frown ebbs at his lips as he studies Steve for a moment longer, wondering if the silence will drive Steve away. But it doesn't, and Bucky realizes this man isn't a bogey he can shake.</p>
<p>"You shouldn't have found me," Bucky states, his lips burning, throat constricting. His blood is racing as he pivots on his heel and begins to march away almost indignantly, his heart hammering against his ribs with dismay. He can hardly hear much between the pound of rain on the ground and the raucous roar of blood in his ears. He's made it several yards, perhaps just inches to freedom, before a firm hand grips his shoulder, the cursed metal one, and spins Bucky back around to face Steve.</p>
<p>The rain runs rivulets down Steve's face, little droplets clinging to his long eyelashes.</p>
<p>You have girl's eyelashes, Bucky remembers. A gentle tease, his laugh emitting from his mouth. And the fleeting of a disdainful, annoyed blue-eyed gaze that his comment had elicited. But then, nothing. The memory dies, without any further context for Bucky to cling to.</p>
<p>Why that? Why does he remember that?</p>
<p>"Buck," Steve gently presses, almost begging the other man to come to his senses.</p>
<p>A truck suddenly roars along the street, tires madly pounding into a growing puddle along the curb that spits up and thrusts itself upon the two men on the sidewalk. Bucky winces, even though he's already soaked to the bone at this point. Steve also grimaces, eyes running down Bucky's sorry stature with a flash of guilt.</p>
<p>"Just come with me for tonight. This rainstorm won't pass until tomorrow morning and I can assure you the street locals have taken all the sheltered places," he reasons. For a moment, Steve rakes his brain for another point to bargain with. Softer, he adds, "In the morning you can leave, no questions asked."</p>
<p>There's a tempest of pain that swirls behind Steve's stoic eyes. Bucky can tell that this isn't the avenue Steve wants to take but recognizes the man's desperate attempts to compromise with the flighty tendencies of Bucky. One night to save his friend from this damned weather. One night, perhaps, would qualm the fitful worries he'd had since the day he'd unmasked the Winter Soldier, James Buchanan Barnes, in the streets of Washington, DC. (Though, honestly, he wouldn't rest until the day James Buchanan Barnes truly stepped out of the haze that was his mind. But Steve Rogers was willing to take one night as a minute victory.)</p>
<p>Shoulders sinking with a sigh, Bucky glances down at his muddied shoes. "Fine. I leave as soon as this passes," he resigns.</p>
<p>There's a flicker of happiness in Steve's eyes, and Bucky can't be certain but there seems to be a relieved ghost of a smile that tugs along the edges of Steve's lips as he turns towards his bike.</p>
<p>"Home isn't far…sorry, I didn't think I was going to get caught in the rain," Steve mentions briefly. He yanks the seat of the motorcycle, retrieving a second helmet that he offers to Bucky.<br/>

</p><p>The other man quietly snorts, pondering how much of this Steve had planned out. A home in New York City. A search strategy. Two helmets for his motorcycle. All these efforts harkened back to the recorded voice at the Smithsonian Museum: "Inseparable on the schoolyard and battlefield."</p>
<p>And Bucky wishes he could connect their relation to tangible memories. But they're dead. They're dead. They're dead.</p>
<p>HYDRA killed them along with the bare-minimal fragments of humanity Bucky had.</p>
<p>With the helmet fitted on his head, Bucky squints as Steve swings his leg over the bike and kicks the engine to life. Bucky swallows his pride as he seats himself behind Steve, glancing at the man's back with a frown.</p>
<p>"You'll wanna hold on," Steve beckons.</p>
<p>His heart takes a little leap as he reaches around Steve's abdomen, using only one arm because he's certain if he wraps both around Steve that the man will feel the vibrations of his pounding heart in his chest. Gently, he rests the side of the helmet against Steve's jacket and rocks slightly as the motorcycle begins to speed forward.</p>
<p>Bucky watches the watery streets flash by as Steve steers the motorcycle back onto the roads and navigates the blocks. Relief floods over Bucky as they angle into a parking garage, shielded from the pelting of the rainclouds. Steve finds a place to park and kills the engine, straightening his spine.</p>
<p>"Nice to be out of that crude," Steve remarks as he dismounts from the bike and sheds his helmet. He reaches out his hand, saying, "I'll take the helmet."</p>
<p>Bucky gently tugs it off his skull, glancing at the inside padding. "Sorry, it's probably soaked now…"</p>
<p>Steve shrugs. "It'll dry." His blue eyes trace their way from the helmet to Bucky with a little, comforting smile. "Let's go upstairs and get you dried off, bud."</p>
<p>Three flights of stairs and a turn down the empty hallway of the building, Steve halts at a plain green door and fumbles with the jingling keys in his hands. In a matter of seconds, Bucky finds himself striding into the residency of Steve Rogers.</p>
<p>A part of Bucky is surprised that someone like Steve Rogers,  Captain America, the superhero, lived in a place considered quaint. His throw pillows matched his couch and there were a few pieces of art adorning the living room walls. Everything is clean and pristine, a fact that doesn't surprise Bucky. Despite the hustling lifestyle that Bucky assumes a superhero maintains, Steve still has time for comfort and quaint. And to match his throw pillows to his couch.</p>
<p>"We'll get you something to eat and clean clothes," Steve explains as he sheds his jacket and haphazardly discards it on a chair near the door.</p>
<p>Bucky hasn't made it a step past the doorframe into the apartment, his feet feeling rooted to the floorboards just beyond the threshold. He doesn't belong in comfort and quaint. He doesn't belong in Steve's apartment. He should be back on the streets, scrounging like an animal because an animal he is.</p>
<p>"How did you find me?" he sighs, voice croaking from either exhaustion or the fact that Bucky had hardly uttered more than a handful of sentences beyond "thank you" and "please" to cashiers and motel receptionists in the previous number of weeks. Or, the third and most likely option, from both factors.</p>
<p>Steve's eyebrows knit together as he studies Bucky. In that fleeting moment, Bucky feels unnaturally small and self-conscious about his disheveled appearance. Grime and mud are clinging to every aspect of him, from head to toe, and his lacking wardrobe isn't the only thing Steve must be observing. Bucky could feel the fatigue prying underneath his eyes. He couldn't remember if it had been one week or two since he'd last slept in a real bed. He knew the last time he had a sufficient meal was nearly three nights prior.</p>
<p>Bucky looks like hell, and a subtle wash of sadness flits its way across Steve's face, the sort of expression a person gives a starved, wandering dog in the streets. And Bucky feels his stomach churn because he isn't much more than a lost mongrel in this world.</p>
<p>Steve finally breaks through his momentary trance, a little sigh escaping from his mouth. "You were near Coney Island…" he responds, naming the place as if Bucky should suddenly illuminate with knowledge of the place. When Steve only receives a deadpan look in response, his shoulders sink an inch and he glances away remorsefully. "You loved Coney Island. Especially Nathan's. You said they were the --"</p>
<p>"Best damn burgers in the Tri-state area."</p>
<p>The words flow from Bucky's mouth with smug ease. Where they came from, he isn't entirely sure, because his brain can't seem to locate its origin. But he speaks, and immediately afterward his jaw unhinges a bit with shock as he stares at Steve, who returns a blue-eyed gaze of disbelief.</p>
<p>The ghosts of a smile creep at Steve's lips as he nods to affirm Bucky's statement. There's a little gleam in his eyes, and Bucky knows the man's hope is reignited just by a meager statement. "I just had a feeling you'd turn up here in Brooklyn," he admits with a flash of disdain for his optimism. His hands slide into his jean pockets shyly as he traverses the kitchen and ducks his head away to turn for a kitchen cabinet.</p>
<p>"So, you've been patrolling the streets?" Bucky quizzes, his eyebrows furrowing at the thought. He still couldn't wrap his brain around their past because he couldn't recall much more than a fragment of it, but he knew Steve valued every moment since their childhood on a quantum that caused him to spend time searching for Bucky on the Brooklyn streets without a single ounce of evidential proof that his search wasn't anything above chasing after phantoms.</p>
<p>Steve plucks a can from the cabinet shelf, turning back towards Bucky. The other man across the kitchen recognizes the red and white label, watching intently as Steve bends down to obtain a pot from another cabinet and set it on the stove.</p>
<p>"Well, it turns out my endeavor wasn't in vain," Steve points out matter-of-factly.</p>
<p>An exasperated sigh edges out of Bucky. "I just don't know why--"</p>
<p>His statement is cut off by a soft, stern gaze from Steve who replies, "I know." His words sound defeated, but he wistfully resigns to the fact that whatever shared history between the two was dead in Bucky's mind. He reaches up and runs his fingers through his hair, offering a weak smile to Bucky. "Just…let it be for tonight? If anything, it's my spontaneous act of kindness for someone caught in this deluge."</p>
<p>Steve motions towards the windows across the room where rain splatters and the darkening ashen sky provide to be little comfort. Despite all of this, Bucky was relieved to be somewhere of sufficient shelter.</p>
<p>When the soup is on the stovetop and the burner turned on, Steve retreats silently down the small hallway across the apartment. By now Bucky has taken a seat on a stool at the kitchen island, gazing tediously out at the fade from a gray, cloudy evening to night. His bones feel tired and he can't imagine how he had survived this many nights without the promise of a comfortable bed. His blue eyes jet to the couch in the living room, almost coveting the piece of furniture that he assumed he'd call his bed tonight. Finally, somewhere more comfortable than a park bench.</p>
<p>Returning to the kitchen, Steve holds a bundle of clothes in his arms.</p>
<p>"Bathroom is right there," Steve points to the closed door at the end of the hallway. He tosses some clothes in Bucky's direction with a thoughtful frown, eyebrows furrowing. "Might be a bit baggy, but they'll be comfortable."</p>
<p>Bucky's jaw unhinges for a brief moment, no words forming at the tip of his tongue to express his gratitude. In reality, his mind was still drowning in the puddles at the side of Brighton Ave and he couldn't formidably pull himself out of those waters. He didn't know kind. He didn't know compassion. He'd been programmed to express none of those emotions. He was a grade above robot, trapped inside a prison of flesh and bone.</p>
<p>Steve isn't waiting for a thank you. Instead, he's turned his back again and tending to the soup heating on the stove.</p>
<p>"This will probably be done by the time you've washed up," Steve reports. For some reason, Bucky thinks there's a catch of distance in the other man's voice. Does he suddenly regret coming to Bucky's rescue? Was this turning to be an awkward endeavor, too painful to tend to a man he desperately knew but didn't know him back?</p>
<p>Bucky purses his lips, collecting the clothes and retreating into the bathroom.</p>
<p>He cranks the shower as hot as he can stand. When he first washes the slim of rainwater and dirt from this skin, he tips it even hotter. Maybe if he scrubbed hard enough and scorched his flesh enough, he'd somehow wash away the monster that was the Winter Soldier. Maybe, just maybe then, he'd find the James Buchanan Barnes that Steve Rogers knew underneath all that mess. But his skin flares red, and the only thing that lathering himself in Steve's body wash makes him is good smelling.</p>
<p>Once he's dry and fitted in Steve's clothes (the pants were a bit long, since Steve was taller, but his outfit fit relatively comfortably), Bucky returns to a chicken-soup aroma-filled kitchen and a warm bowl sitting out. On a small plate beside the bowl, Steve's stacked a handful of saltine crackers. A thankful smile crosses Bucky's lips as he takes a seat, hunching over his meal.</p>
<p>"Thank you." He tilts his head up at Steve.</p>
<p>The man returns a soft, humble smile in return and nods. "I'll be up for a while longer reading in my room," Steve explains as he shuffles in the direction of the hall. He pauses for a moment, adding, "If you need anything, just ask."</p>
<p>Bucky only nods mutely, watching Steve vanish down the hall and hearing the click of his bedroom door shutting. There's another second where Bucky sits perfectly still, basking in the silence, save the tap of water against the windowsill, realizing the little ache in his chest being left here. He doesn't want to socialize with Steve. He doesn't want to answer questions, the questions he knows is burning in Steve's chest. But he doesn't want this distance. He wants to be close because Steve is the only damned thing that feels familiar and calm. Not a blink of memories to attest to who and what Steve is to him, but he's the only thing that makes Bucky feel a sense belonging on this planet.</p>
<p>He wants close, but close also spins his head with dismay.</p>
<p>He battles these emotions as he finishes the rest of the soup, rinsing and abandoning the bowl in the sink. Slinking out to the couch in the living room, Bucky quickly wraps himself into the embrace of the blanket left by Steve. He nuzzles his head against the bed pillow left there, a new wave of exhaustion settling against his bones. This will be the first time he's slept on something suitable in days. And the first time his eyelids flutter close and he feels safe.</p>
<p>Sleep overtakes Bucky in record timing, though it is disrupted not long after he's reached a state of deep slumber.</p>
<p>A roll of thunder rocks the building, snapping Bucky from his slumber. The man lurches forward with adrenaline rocketing through his veins, faltering off the couch cushions and smacking into the mahogany coffee table located nearby. It's his metal arm that smacks the wood, letting out a crash that makes Bucky flounder even more.</p>
<p>He's on the floor between the two furniture pieces, his blood roaring and lungs panting. Realizing there's no imminent threat of danger, Bucky releases an edgy sigh, wincing at the minor pain in his tailbone from smacking onto the floor.</p>
<p>"Buck?" Steve is calling from the hall, rushing out into the living room. In a flash of lightning, even though splitting, Bucky manages to catch the dismay that robs Steve's normally calm composure.</p>
<p>Bucky winces, crumpling to the floor with a humiliated sigh and shutter. "I…I'm okay," Bucky manages, hoping Steve will take his word.</p>
<p>Hands wrap themselves around Bucky's shoulders, easing up from the floor and back to the security of the couch cushions. Bucky squirms a bit, a little squeak of a protest escaping his mouth as he glares over at Steve, who has taken a seat beside him. Bucky's body still throbs with shock, flinching as another boom of thunder rocks them.</p>
<p>"You're shaking," Steve observes sternly.</p>
<p>Shoulders slump as Bucky glances away. If it wasn't for the darkness of the room, Bucky was certain Steve would catch the flush of hot red washing his cheeks. "I'm fine, I just got spooked off the couch," he gulps with a nervous, forced chuckle.</p>
<p>The truth was, Bucky never liked storms. But he'd always muscled that concern away, because what grown man, what vicious killer, was afraid of a bit of rain and lightning? Except for tonight, the guard was off, and of all people, Steve was there to revel in it.</p>
<p>Steve Rogers doesn't listen to Bucky's fake attempt to mask his fear, because in the next moment he's wrapping his arms protectively around Bucky's frame. There's a brief moment of retort from Bucky, but Steve only clings a bit closer and murmurs, "Just breathe, okay?"</p>
<p>Does he know Bucky hates storms?</p>
<p>Did he know that from their past life together?</p>
<p>Time passes and Bucky hardly shifts an inch in Steve's embrace. Once the shot of adrenaline dissipates from his veins, Bucky becomes wholly aware of the situation. Just a while ago he'd been so petrified of the idea of close, and now he's the complete opposite of distant with Steve. He's curled up on Steve's couch in Steve's apartment in Steve's arms. He can't comprehend how several hours ago, he was what he thought was the farthest thing he could be from Steve, wedging that gap deeper and deeper with each day since their encounter over the Potomac. And now, distant was obsolete.</p>
<p>And the thing that scares Bucky the most is he wants this. He does want close. Because close is familiar and calm and, dammit, Steve was so warm, too.</p>
<p>Why does he want this?</p>
<p>The museum archives could harken about their friendship, their alliance, the hell and back the duo covered through World War II. But it couldn't answer why Steve's arms and warmth were familiar and calm and made every horrible thing Bucky plagues himself with feel nonexistent. He was a Winter Soldier, but, in Steve, he was only James Buchanan Barnes.<br/>
"Steve?" Bucky asks, his voice meek as a mouse.</p>
<p>"Hmmm?" Steve hums.</p>
<p>"Why…why did you come for me? To what am I worth any of this?"</p>
<p>A pause answers Bucky's question, and for a moment he regrets asking it. Maybe he wasn't worth anything. Maybe he was right all along, he was just the Winter Solider – atrocious murder, mindless weapon.</p>
<p>But Steve rubs his palm along Bucky's back, his cheek pressing against Bucky's head.</p>
<p>"No matter what happened during those years, I'm not giving up on you. I'm not giving up on James Buchanan Barnes," Steve explains firmly, his words strong with resolution. "The Winter Soldier and you aren't the same entity."</p>
<p>We are the same, Bucky wants to protest. You're too naïve and can't remove your rose-tinted glasses. I am the Winter Soldier. I killed those people. We are the same, we are the same, we are the same.</p>
<p>Steve's hands grow slightly ridged around Bucky, drawing him slightly closer to his chest as if he could hear the tumult of thoughts in Bucky's brains. The warmth and embrace allow Bucky's thoughts to dissipate, focused on the absolute warmth of Steve's body. I'm safe here, I'm safe here, his mind repeats until the vehemence abandons.</p>
<p>"But…I…I know this is all for you to unearth and understand on your own…but whenever and wherever you are, I'm here for you," Steve breathes, "Always."</p>
<p>Here and always, like a vow.</p>
<p>The decades in and out of ice, Bucky hadn't known anything for certain other than he was a man with another man's mission to fulfill. The day he walked away from the Potomac, nothing was certain for Bucky. He figured he'd wander the ends of the earth like this. But here, in two words, Bucky has something small to cling to.</p>
<p>In the past, they had always had one another. And now, in this present seventy years from where they once lost one another, they would hold loyal to the same truths.</p>
<p>Here and always. Bucky and Steve.</p>
<p>The former exhaustion that had haunted Bucky earlier, disrupted by the stormy onslaught outside, now returns to the man's frame. He's fighting it each step of the way, trying to relish the feeling of being in Steve's hold, trying to make each minute last. But his body begins to grow heavier, and the battle is lost.<br/>

</p><p>"Hey, Steve," Bucky's small voice croaks, exhaustion weaving its fingers through each word. His eyelids have fluttered closed at this point and he inhales are long and steady, harkening of an imminent slumber.</p>
<p>"Yeah, Buck?" comes the reply, gentle, smooth like honey.</p>
<p>Kneading his forehead closer into the crevice of Steve's shoulder and neck, mesmerized by the gentle, rhythmic rise of Steve's chest as he breathes.</p>
<p>"Thank you."</p>
<p>Lips gently press against Bucky's hair, lingering for a moment as he catches the little snore that passes through Bucky's lips, a contented shutter. Steve shifts a bit under his weight, gripping his fingers around Bucky's sides as he squeezes him closer like, after every passing moment, he could lose Bucky. So, he keeps him close. Because close is all Steve Rogers has wanted, and close is what he's always found in Bucky, here, now and always.</p>
<p>"Anything for you," Steve breathes, "Anything."</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>